


How To Say Goodbye

by thisisallivegot



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst!lock, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Sorry Not Sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-22
Updated: 2012-12-11
Packaged: 2017-11-19 07:15:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 8,820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/570631
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thisisallivegot/pseuds/thisisallivegot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock receives warning from Moriarty that very soon, he will Fall. He spends his remaining time subtly saying goodbye to John.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Seven Days Before

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Bartholomew](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bartholomew/gifts).



> This story is finished, aside from minor edits. There should be 8 chapters, and I'll post them every other day.

John sighed loudly. “Sherlock, you've been lying on that couch all day. Don't you think you should get up and actually DO something?”

The detective scoffed at him. “Like what? Everything has been so dreadfully boring lately. Lestrade hasn't called me with any cases-”

“That's not true!” John cut him off. “He called you just this morning about that man that was found murdered in his lawyer's house. No blood, no chemicals, no signs of a struggle, and no one else was home. Go work on that!”

Sherlock waved one hand dismissively. “That doesn't count. Even a child would know he had been poisoned at the cafe earlier that day, and I told Lestrade as much on the phone. It doesn't count as a case if I don't have to so much as move from the couch to solve it.”

“What? How would you know-? Nevermind. Then who did it, and why?” He tapped his foot impatiently against the floor.

“His daughter, obviously, out of resentment for the affair her father was having with his attorney.”

“How could you possibly know that just from hearing the preliminary police reports?”

“Lestrade sent me a picture of the body. There was glitter on the corner of the man's right thumbnail.”

John decided it was pointless to question him any further. “Right. Well, surely you can find something to do. Sitting around the flat all day isn't healthy, and you're driving me mad.”

Sherlock hummed noncommittally and John rolled his eyes, stomping off toward the kitchen to put the groceries away. Sherlock could hear him slamming cabinet doors and sighed quietly to himself, wondering why the man always had to make such drama out of things. It wasn't as if he were hurting anything by lying here. Before he could consider it any farther, his phone buzzed, the vibrations loud against the table. He picked it up himself, not bothering asking his flatmate to do it, and opened the text that was waiting for him. The number was unfamiliar, but as soon as he read it, he had no doubts as to who it was from. There was only three words.

Are you ready?

John made his way back into the living room and Sherlock quickly deleted the text, swinging his legs over the side of the couch as he did so. “You're right, John. I think I'm going to go out for awhile, after all.”

John looked up, surprised. “Did Lestrade have a case? Give me a moment to change my shoes and I'll be ready.”

“No, no, Lestrade didn't call. I'm just going to go for a walk. There's no need for you to come out with me. I know you have things to do with that girl of yours.”

“Michelle broke up with me three days ago,” John huffed. 

“I'll be back within a couple hours. Don't wait up for me.” Without waiting for John to respond to that, he grabbed his coat and made his way out of the flat, letting the door click shut quietly behind him. He knew John would be cross with him later, but just now he needed time to figure this out. He needed to think. 

Walking briskly down the street, he thought about the text he had received just minutes ago. The words had stuck, floating about in his mind like evidence for a case often did. Are you ready? Ready for what, he wanted to ask, but of course, he already knew the answer. The Fall. James Moriarty's self-proclaimed grand poetic plan for the end of their game. Sherlock took a steadying breath. His stomach heaved, but he ignored it.

He didn't know the criminal mastermind's exact plan, but he did know two things. First, though not most prominent in his mind, was that he, Sherlock Holmes, was going to die. Moriarty had made that much clear. No game of his could end with anything less final, anything less extravagant. He didn't know how it would happen, but he knew that it would.

Second, based on his recent experience with the man - (I will burn the heart out of you, his mind hissed to him in memory) he knew that he could not escape that first point. Even he, genius that he was, could not prevent it. Or rather, he would not prevent it. Even if his life had to be forfeit, fighting was not worth the risk, not worth the possibility of harm coming to - (Blue water, rapidly thudding heartbeat; finger on a trigger, the smell of Semtex, that confusing, so rarely present emotion of fear) his heart. John. For him, for John, his army-doctor-blogger, he would fall.

Mycroft, he mused would be sickeningly condescending about all of this. Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock. He'd heard those words and variations on the sentiment from his early years, as far back as he could remember. It was not an idea that he disagreed with, but it also wasn't one that he considered to be particularly relevant to the situation, regardless of what his brother would say. For once, Sherlock wasn't considering what was most advantageous to himself. This wasn't logical. This wasn't science, nor numbers, nor empirical. This wasn't rational. This situation, his relationship with John, was made up of raw emotion. He could almost laugh at himself for it. 

And what would John say, he wondered, if he knew about all of this? He would be noble, and try to sacrifice himself for the greater good, of course. Or maybe he would try to hunt down Moriarty and shoot him where he stood. But if none of those things were plausible, if there were no way out, what would he advise? He'd be unnaturally quiet for a few pregnant moments, but then – then, he would suggest a beer. 

Sherlock made his way to the pub.

 

It was 4am before Sherlock stumbled through the doorway of 221B. John had been dozing on the couch, but woke groggily when the detective fell noisily against the wall. He sat up, rubbing at his eyes gently. 

“Christ, Sherlock, it's-” he paused to glance quickly down at his watch, “four in the bloody morning. Where have you been?”

Sherlock straightened in a futile attempt to recover his dignity. “I went...out.” He slurred.

John looked up at him in concern, his sleep-hazed mind not quite processing the situation yet. “What's wrong with you?”

Sherlock steadied himself with a hand against the wall. “I, I am fine. The room, however, seems to be drunk.”

John nearly rolled his eyes at the taller man. “How did you even get a pub to serve you enough to get you this drunk?”

Sherlock grinned sloppily at him. “Not just one pub. The first bartender kicked me out after I detailed his wife's secret dalliances with her lesbian lover.”

“Don't you have any tact?” He paused for only a moment, not giving his flatmate time to form an answer. “Right, stupid question.” He sighed and pushed himself up from the couch. “Let's get you to bed, and we'll discuss this in the morning.”

Sherlock wisely bit back his retort that, technically, it already was morning. He could tell that John was agitated, and didn't want to upset him further. Instead, he simply nodded agreeably. 

John put one arm around the detective's waist, gently guiding him toward the bedroom. Once there, he helped the man into bed. “There now, go to sleep, Sherlock.” He sighed irritably again before closing the door behind himself, muttering about how he wasn't a bloody nursemaid. 

John was long gone before Sherlock whispered into the dark. “Sorry, John.”


	2. Six Days Before

When Sherlock woke again it was past eleven and sunlight was pouring in brightly through his window. He groped blindly for a pillow, shoving it over his face in an attempt to block out the damnable light cruelly exacerbating his headache. He groaned when the action did nothing to dispel the horrible throbbing. He let his mind run through his symptoms. Sleeping late, headache, sensitivity to light and a vague feeling of nausea. Diagnosis: hangover.

He forced himself to sit up and shuffle toward the washroom, forcing down bile as he did so. He leaned on the sink and lifted his head to stare into the mirror. His eyes were bloodshot, with dark circles beneath them. His skin was even paler than usual and his dark curls were unruly, evidence of having tossed about in his sleep. As expected, then. He nodded to himself at the confirmed hypothesis, then reached for a washcloth off the nearby shelf. He wet it in the sink, then rubbed the moist cloth across his face, trying to banish his remaining sleepiness.

Once he deemed himself to be sufficiently awake, he headed toward the kitchen in search of aspirin. He passed through the living room and a small part of his brain noted absently that John sat in the chair, looking at something on his laptop. Sherlock ignored him for the moment, focusing single-mindedly on his mission to locate medicine. He was sure that there had been pills in the kitchen at some point – unless John had removed them in one of his misguided attempts to keep his friend drug-free. Sherlock sneered, figuring John had done exactly that when he was unable to find what he was searching for.

He stomped back into the living room, glaring at his flatmate. “Where's the aspirin?”

John looked up from his laptop at him. “You used them all for an experiment months ago. Something about a case, I think.”

“Why did you not buy more? You've been shopping several times since then, unless our refrigerator had been continually restocking itself.”

“Because they weren't actually being used. Why bother wasting the money on them?”

“I would have used them now,” Sherlock snapped.

John snapped back at him. “Well, you wouldn't need them if you hadn't gotten completely pissed last night for no reason! You didn't even tell me where you'd gone! Do you have any idea how worried I was?” John had been holding in this explosion of anger all morning and he was helpless to stop it's outpouring now. He could Sherlock be so blindly inconsiderate?

Sherlock was silent for a few long moments, his agitation draining from him in the face of John's emotion. “John...” he ventured

“Nevermind. I don't want to hear it.” He snapped his laptop shut and stood up angrily. “I honestly don't know why I expected anything different It's not like you’ve ever cared before” He huffed and escaped to his room, not once looking back.

Sherlock stared at his retreating back, finding himself speechless after John's tirade. It was mere minutes before John came stomping back down the stairs. Without a word to Sherlock, he walked out of the flat, slamming the door behind him.

Sherlock backed up until he felt the edge of the couch against the back of his legs and let himself fall back on it. His elbows rested on his knees and he learned forward until his head rested on his upturned palms. How could he have let this happen? Last night had been a mistake, he knew, but he hadn't known where else to go. He had needed to forget, for just a little while. Coming home to fight with John had never been part of the plan. It was the exact opposite of what he wanted. He wanted to be close to the man, wanted to tell him everything, all the things he had never said, all the things he felt – maybe he should go after him and confess. He began to stand to do just that when he heard his phone vibrate from across the room. He walked over and picked it up, opening the waiting text message. It was from Mycroft.

**Let him be.**

Sherlock sighed and sat back down on the couch. Of course his nosy brother would know what was going on. But, if Mycroft said to let John go for awhile, his advice was probably good. It seemed that his only option now was to wait here for John's return.

 

John slept over at Harry's that night, getting in the door by bribing her with information about the cause of his foul mood. She made him a quick dinner then ushered him into the living room and gestured for him to sit on the couch. He obliged, and she she sat cross-legged across from him, eyes wide, eager for gossip. “Alright, Johnny. Spill.”

John leaned back against the couch, exhaling harshly. “I don't even know why it matters. He just makes me so bloody angry sometimes.”

His sister jumped on the pronoun. “He?” She had assumed that John was having girlfriend problems, as usual. Personally, she thought he should just give up on women, but she knew that it wasn't her place to say so.

John responded absently, unaware of Harry's musings. “Yeah, Sherlock, my flatmate. You've met the bugger, haven't you?”

Harry nodded her assent. “Yes, he interrupted us once when you and I had met for dinner.”

John huffed. “He does that a lot. Popping in on my private affairs uninvited, that is. He's always making excuses about needing my help on cases and what not but half the time he doesn't actually need me at all. It's like he interrupts my dates for the hell of it!” He ranted.

“He interrupts your dates?” She asked, not allowing any trace of the amusement she was feeling to seep into her voice.

“Yeah, all the time. I don't even know how he figures out where I am; I sure as hell don't tell him, not after the circus incident.”

Harry stifled a giggle behind her fist. “Has he interrupted something important again? Is that what's got you in such a mood?”

John huffed out a humorless laugh. “No. I haven't been out lately, not since I got strapped up to some bombs. Girls tend not to like that kind of thing on a date.”

“Okaaaay. So what did the prat do this time?”

John told her the entire story, starting with his return from the store and ending with his storming out of the flat after his row with Sherlock. By the time he finished, he was nearly out of breath from his yelling. “He's been even worse than usual lately. I don't understand the man.”

Harry leaned toward him on the couch and lay a hand gently on his uninjured shoulder. “Oh, Johnny. You two are both so oblivious, aren't you?”

“What are you on about now, Harry?”

She didn't answer him. “Go to bed now. You can go back to Sherlock in the morning.”

He grumbled unintelligibly to himself but quickly acquiesced to her suggestion. He knew his sister well enough to know when she was finished with a conversation, and that was certainly the case now. Trying to press the subject further would only be a waste of his breath.

He was still thinking of Sherlock as he fell asleep.


	3. 5 Days Before

  Sherlock woke slowly, nuzzling unconsciously into the warm bundle he held tightly in his arms. He couldn't recall the last time he'd been this deeply asleep nor this comfortable and he wasn't at all ready to give the feeling up to wakefulness. Unfortunately for him, his body had other ideas. He opened his eyes and glared menacingly at anything in his line of sight. He started to sit up but paused when he noticed that he still held something tightly in his arms. He looked down at it in confusion. The memories of the night before came back to him in a rush as he saw what he was holding.

 

( _Worry, ticking clock, checking his phone minute by minute. Mycroft's repeated, unwelcome advice to let it be. Late, tired tired tired, fist feebly grasping John's coat, taking in the smell of him. Eyes shut, John's scent, sleep.)_

 

He was still holding the coat.

 

XxXx

 

When John treaded up the stairs to the flat around dinnertime, most of his anger had faded and left him feeling strangely hollow. That hollowness retreated hastily when, halfway up the stairs, he caught the pungent scent of smoke. He leapt up the rest of the stairs and burst through the door, continuing into the kitchen. The air was thick with smoke and he could hear the gruff sound of Sherlock coughing. Holding his break, he shoved open the kitchen window and dragged Sherlock downstairs and out into the open air.

 

Once outside, the detective bent over with his hands on his knees and continued coughing roughly. John leaned back against the wall and tried to steady his breathing as the adrenaline fled from his body.

 

Sherlock straightened and looked directly at his flatmate. “Thank you for your assistance, John.”

 

John let out a breathless giggle. “I leave you alone for _one_ day, and I come home to my kitchen on fire.”

 

Sherlock furrowed his eyebrows. “The fire itself was extinguished before your arrival.”

 

John shook his head a bit hysterically. “How did this happen?”

 

Sherlock hesitated. “My...endeavor was not as successful as I had intended.”

 

John felt his earlier anger begin to resurface at the admission. “Do you remember the rule about flammable experiments in the flat?”

 

Sherlock looked abashed for a moment at the memory before responding. “Yes, I remember. But this wasn't an experiment.” He tilted his head slightly as he considered that statement. “Well, at least not in the conventional sense”, he amended.

 

John blinked slowly. “Am I supposed to understand what you're talking about?” The question was one he had grown used to asking often when Sherlock was involved.

 

“It wasn't an experiment”, Sherlock re-iterated. “I was attempting to cook.”

 

John gaped at him. “What? Why?”

 

Sherlock shifted his weight restlessly. “I knew you were angry, so I was trying to cook you dinner to make up for my rudeness earlier. But I got distracted by the increased heart rate of my Daphnia sample and forgot that the lasagna was in the oven.”

 

John stared at him blankly for another moment, then chose not to question the odd situation any further. “Okay, Sherlock. I know a great place down the street where we can get some Italian. Just let me run upstairs and grab my card.” He started up the stairs, then turned back to add. “And to make sure that none of the rest of our flat is still on fire.”

 

Sherlock made a noise of annoyance in the back of his throat – he made sure that he put out all the flames! John was too far away to hear him, so he pushed the irritation aside and turned back toward the street, contemplative. He had tried to deal with the smoke before John got home, so that the disaster wouldn't cause him anymore stress, but John had shown up a bit earlier than he had anticipated. He wondered if that made this endeavor a failure on his part. Before he could consider it any more, John was shutting the door behind himself.

 

“Alright, ready? It's only a few blocks from here, so we can walk, unless you just want to take a cab.”

 

Sherlock shook his head. “No, a walk sounds...nice.”

 

“Never knew you to be one to enjoy walks until recently.”

 

_It's only because the walk is with you_ , Sherlock didn't say. It was true, but the sentiment left an odd taste in his mouth and stayed lodged in his throat so that it would remain unsaid. Instead, he fell into step beside John silently, trusting his friend to know him well enough that the lack of an answer wouldn't be a problem.

 

Though they walked leisurely, the restaurant only took a few minutes to reach, and Sherlock soon found himself following John into the door of what appeared to be an old brick building, approximately sixty years old by his estimation. The building was fairly small, and the man who Sherlock deduced to be the chef came up to them immediately, greeting John warmly.

 

“John! It's been awhile since I've seen you here. I have the perfect table for you, just by the window. Oh, and I'll be sure to bring some wine for you and your date.” The man winked at him.

 

By now, the two of them were used to people assuming that they were out on dates. This time, John didn't try to correct him.


	4. Four days Before

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the slight lateness of this chapter. My wonderful friends have been keeping me occupied so that my depression doesn't get the best of me, so I haven't been online much. I hope you enjoy the chapter.

  The call came in around noon. Sherlock pointedly ignored the ringing phone, not moving from his perch on the sofa where he repeatedly tossed a ball in the air and caught it.

 

John called from the other room. “Are you going to get that?”

 

The detective's tone was bored. “No.”

 

John let out an exasperated sigh before coming into the living room and picking up Sherlock's cell phone himself. He glanced down at the caller ID. “It's Lestrade.”

 

Sherlock didn't answer, but held one hand out for John to hand him the phone. Rolling his eyes, the doctor obliged, then went back to whatever he had been doing before.

 

“Yes?” Sherlock answered the phone with only a flicker of interest.

 

“I've got a case.”

 

“Yes, I figured as much,” he responded dryly. “I'm also assuming it isn't worth my time.”

 

Lestrade huffed in his ear. “The victim has been completely drained of blood.”

 

The detective perked up a bit, sitting up on the sofa. “Any leads?”

 

“No. We don't even have an ID on the bloke. Some teenager found him dead in an alleyway half an hour ago.”

 

Sherlock was already standing. “Location?” As soon as the Detective-Inspector told him, he was grabbing his coat off the cook. He glanced back, then raised his voice slightly. “Coming, John?”

 

The man in question re-appeared in the living room. “Case?” he guessed.

 

“Yep!” Sherlock exclaimed gleefully. “Body drained of blood.”

 

John rolled his eyes, but grabbed his coat anyway. “Of course you would be excited about that.”

 

“Of course,” Sherlock replied, not picking up on his flat-mate's sarcasm. “It's fascinating.”

 

“Right. Let's go.”

 

With a quick nod, the detective bounded out the door and down the stairs, the doctor following directly behind. The crime scene was only a few blocks away so they elected to walk instead of bothering with a cab. Fifteen minutes later, they were there, staring down an alleyway partitioned off by bright yellow police tape and surrounded by cops milling about. A few of the policemen rolled their eyes as they saw Sherlock approach, but a glare from John had them keeping their silence.

 

Sherlock immediately found Lestrade. “Anything new?”

 

“No.” He sounded tired and haggard. “The cause of death is a slit throat, but even that doesn't explain the complete lack of blood.”

 

Sherlock nodded briskly, then walked past him to examine the body himself. John inclined his head apologetically, then followed his friend. It was only ten minutes later when Sherlock walked back under the yellow tape, then turned to Lestrade, telling him the identity, motive, and location of the murderer.

 

They were back home in time for dinner.

 

 

The clock ticked mockingly, the heartbeat of the second-hand grinding rhythmically against Sherlock's ears. It was late. He had long since given up on counting the hours; he only knew that he had been laying in bed for a frustratingly long time, unable to drift off. With a heavy sigh he rose, padding into the living room. He found John already sitting casually on the sofa, a muted comedy on the telly. The detective rubbed tiredly at his eyes before greeting him. “Can't sleep?”

 

John glanced away from the telly for a moment. “Nightmares.” The silence stretched for only a moment before he turned to face his flat-mate fully. “You?”

 

“Not nightmares. Just can't sleep.” He let it drop at that, plopping down on the sofa beside him.

 

“Did I keep you up? I muted this so it wouldn't wake you.” He gestured lazily toward the telly.

 

“No, it wasn't you. I never actually got to sleep at all. I've had a lot on my mind.”

 

“Hm?” John frowned. He knew that Sherlock didn't have a case currently, past the one he had solved easily earlier that day, and that was what usually kept him up at night, working long past the time the average person would have tired.

 

“Nothing important,” he deflected. “What are you watching?”

 

“I don't actually know. It's whatever was on.” He shrugged, but Sherlock nodded. “I think it's about to go off,” John offered. “I can see what else is on.” He reached for the remote and began flipping through the channels. They had gone through the entire guide twice before the two of them eventually settled for a cliché horror film that had Sherlock snarking about the poor graphics, and John chuckling light-heartedly at Sherlock's irritation.

 

Half-way through the movie, John stopped paying attention, letting himself focus instead on the sound of his friend's voice as he pointed out the various flaws. He yawned widely, trying unsuccessfully with his hand, and Sherlock glanced over toward him.

 

“You should go to bed.”

 

“No, no, I'm good,” he assured him.

 

“Mm.” Sherlock's disbelief was obvious, but he let the subject drop, turning back to the screen.

 

John fought to keep his eyes open, but it wasn't long before he fell asleep, head resting on Sherlock's shoulder.


	5. Three Days Before

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my least favorite chapter, but I'm posting it anyway. I hope it isn't too bad.

  They woke to the sound of Mrs. Hudson humming a cheery tune as she ascended the stairs. Sometime during the night they had moved so that Sherlock was lying back against the arm of the sofa and John was lying with his head in the detective's lap. He sat up blearily as their landlady opened the door.

 

“Good morning, boys! I brought some tea. The sweet couple next door brought it over.” She busied herself with picking up pieces of litter around the apartment. “Have you two had breakfast? I was going to make some eggs.”

 

Sherlock yawned. “Good morning, Mrs. Hudson. How was your vacation?”

 

“It was great!” She replied, making her way into the kitchen and fussing over the mess she found there.

 

Sherlock jumped up off the couch. “Mrs. Hudson, do not touch the chemicals on the table! Those are part of a very delicate experiment!”

 

“Calm down”, she told him, sweeping back into the living room with a trash bag in hand. “I'm not messing with your stuff. Just tidying up a bit.”

 

John ignored their bickering. “Do you want some help with breakfast?”

 

“No, no,” she shooed him off. “You two just sit down and relax. You work too hard. I talked to Greg earlier and he said you two worked a case just yesterday.” She patted John's arm kindly. “Sit back down and I'll make you breakfast.”

 

They argued half-heartedly for another minute before giving in to her insistence. They sat back down and she started breakfast, leaving them to talk.

 

“So, Sherlock”, John started, rubbing at the back of his neck.

 

“Don't bother, it's fine.”

 

John glared at him. “No, I wanted to apologize for falling asleep on you. It's a product of having been in the army, I guess. You fall asleep where ever you can.” He smiled sheepishly.

 

“And as I said, it's fine. I rather enjoyed it.”

 

John looked up, startled. “You did?”

 

“Yes, of course.” Sherlock responded dismissively.

 

Mrs. Hudson's voice rang from the kitchen. “Boys, do you want some toast?”

 

“Yes, please!”

 

John still eyed Sherlock, but let the conversation drop. “Alright, then.”

 

Sherlock leaned back, resting his arms behind his head. “Did you have plans for today?”

 

“Er, not really. Brittany had asked me if I wanted to go tot he fair with her tonight, but I told her no. Things just didn't work out with us so well the last time, you know?”

 

Sherlock hummed. “That's good. I didn't like her anyway.”

 

“What? What was wrong with her?”

 

“She was boring. All your girlfriends are boring.”

 

The doctor rolled his eyes. “Everyone is boring to the great Sherlock Holmes. What do you expect me to do, date _you?_ ” He spit out sarcastically.

 

Sherlock was quiet for a moment. “I'm not a woman.”

 

“Yes, I'm quite aware of that.”

 

Mrs. Hudson walked back into the room carrying two full plates of food and setting them carefully down on the coffee table in front of them. “I know it's improper to eat in the living room, but you certainly can't eat in that kitchen of yours. It's filthy, not to mention all those chemicals all over the table. Who knows what kind of poisoning you could get?”

 

Sherlock began to make a comment. “I know all of the chemicals contained-”

 

John cut him off. “Thank you, Mrs. Hudson. Please, sit down to eat with us.”

 

“Oh, alright,” she agreed. “I also wanted to invite you boys down for dinner tonight. My niece is coming over so I thought I would make a special meal, and I know that you two probably haven't eaten properly since I've been gone.”

 

Sherlock cringed, but John didn't give him a chance to turn the offer down. “Of course, we would love that. What time should we be there?”

 

“Emily is coming at six, so any time around then is fine. I know that you two are busy, so I won't hold you to a certain time.”

 

“Alright, thank you,” John smiled, picking at his plate hungrily.

 

“No problem, dears. You know that I enjoy spending time with you two.”

 

John smiled, and they finished their breakfast.

 

 

Dinner that night was peaceful (“No, Sherlock, it was not boring, and you may not refuse next time on those grounds”), and they returned to 221B after sitting through a movie with Mrs. Hudson and her niece.

 

John took off his coat and hung it up inside the doorway. “Well, that was nice. I have to say, I'm jealous of her. I would love to go to the Bahamas. And she had such a wonderful tan!”

 

Sherlock twisted his nose up in disdain. “There's nothing good there. Everyone is so peaceful and happy and _boring._ ”

 

“Peaceful doesn't always mean boring, Sherlock. Sometimes peace is good. Do you never just get tired of all the drama?”

 

“No,” Sherlock answered stubbornly.

 

John rolled his eyes at his flat-mate's dramatics. “Alright, whatever. I'm going to bed. I have the morning shift at the hospital tomorrow, and I need to be well rested.”

 

Sherlock nodded, then shut himself in his room. He didn't sleep.

 


	6. Two Days Before

 

John went into work early, just as he had told Sherlock he had too. Winter was always busy at the hospital and they had been short-staffed lately, meaning that John had to work extra hours. He usually didn't mind, using the income to keep up the apartment and to buy food for them. Today, however, the hours seemed to tick by slowly, and he wished fervently that he could be at home. Smiling to himself at the irony, he texted Sherlock.

 

**Bored. - JW**

 

It was seventeen minutes later when he got a reply. **Aren't you supposed to be working? - SH**

 

**I am. Still bored. - JW**

 

**I'm on a case. - SH**

 

**And you didn't invite me? I feel left out. - JW**

 

**If you'd like me to come pick you up, I can. Lestrade is being even more of an idiot than usual. - SH**

 

A patient came in and John put his phone down. The man was easy to treat, a simple broken arm, and it was under an hour before he picked it back up. **Have you caught your criminal yet? - JW**

 

**No, but I'm close. I know where he's going to be, and I'm about to go cut him off. - SH**

 

**Got him. - SH**

 

**Going back to the flat now. -SH**

 

It was three more hours before John was able to check his phone again. **Sorry, we got busy. - JW**

 

**It's fine. When will you be home? - SH**

 

**Not sure. They need me to stay late. - JW**

 

**Hurry if you can. - SH**

 

 

 

The hospital was filled for the rest of the evening and another doctor called in sick, leaving John working even later than he had originally planned. It was past midnight by the time he got home, trudging up the stairs past his exhaustion. He found Sherlock on the couch.

 

“Hey, Sherlock. Have you had dinner?”

 

“Not hungry.”

 

“Alright.” He glanced toward the tv. “What's on?”

 

“Don't know. I wasn't watching it. I was thinking.”

 

John came to sit beside him, hefting the remote up and flipping through the channels. “Ooh, Doctor Who is on. I haven't been able to watch this in weeks.”

 

Sherlock chuckled. “Of course you would like that.”

 

John looked up at him, affronted. “What? It's a British classic.”

 

“Something being a classic doesn't make it good.”

 

“You watched Maury last week. I don't want to hear you talking to me about what is and what isn't good telly. The show's back on, hush.”

 

Sherlock obliged, shutting his mouth and watching the show with John. It was a particularly sad episode, and by the end of it, John was obviously somewhat upset.Sherlock knew better than to comment on it, instead simply scooting closer to his friend and casually draping an arm over his shoulders. To his surprise, John leaned into the touch, lying his head on Sherlock's shoulder. When Sherlock looked down again, it was to see John with his face buried in his sleeve, crying.

 

The soldier looked up, sniffling. “Bloody hell, I'm sorry. I don't know what's come over me. Things have just been really difficult lately, you know?”

 

Sherlock frowned, unsure of how to handle the situation. He reached behind himself to the table and grabbed a tissue, handing it to John. “Here.”

 

John took it without commenting, wiping the rest of the tears off his face. “I think I need a drink.”

 

“No, stay here.” Sherlock couldn't explain why he said it, but he also wasn't surprised that he had.

 

“Hm? Why?”

 

Instead of answering, Sherlock leaned down to kiss him. John sat very still for a moment, frozen with shock, before he responded, his lips moving against Sherlock's, bringing a hand up to wrap in his hair. After a moment he pulled back, slack-jawed.

 

“That was...unexpected.”

 

Sherlock frowned at him. “Unwelcome?”

 

He hesitated for only a moment. “No.”

 

“Good.” Sherlock leaned in to capture his lips again and John responded immediately this time, kissing him back warmly. They didn't pull back until they were both panting for breath. “You have no idea how long I've been waiting to do that.”

 

“I'm not sure that I wanted you to wait.”

 

Sherlock's eyebrows furrowed, but he settled into a smile. “Let's watch a movie, yeah?”

 

John matched his grin with one of his own. “Yeah, sounds good.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just two more chapters after this. :)


	7. One Day Before

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no excuse for this having taken so long, but I do apologize. Only one chapter to go after this one, and oh, is it tragic. I do hope you enjoy.

  Sherlock woke with a smile at the memory of the previous day. He stretched lazily across the bed and his eyes fell to his phone lying on his nightstand. The screen was lit up and he realized that the sound of a received text was what had woken him. He grabbed the phone and turned over on his back, opening the message.

 

**Tomorrow. Nine o'clock. St. Bart's roof. Xoxo**

 

The detective closed his eyes tightly; his euphoric smile faded and his breath whooshed out of him. He felt like someone had suddenly forced all the oxygen from his body and for a long moment he thought he was choking. His chest burned and his mind raced.

 

( _Tomorrow. Too soon, too soon, too soon. There was still too much to do and not nearly enough time. Work, unsolved cases, unfinished experiments. Lestrade, Mycroft, Mrs. Hudson, John John John-)_

 

He inhaled. John. He had to remain calm for John. He couldn't know, couldn't suspect that something was wrong. Sherlock had kept it secret for a week now. He could manage to hold up the ruse now, to stay strong for the endgame. John couldn't know that Moriarty had contacted him at all. John would try to change things, want to go to the police, try to save _him_. But Sherlock knew that salvation wasn't possible, understood the inevitability of it on a deeper level than John could, because John didn't know all the facts, didn't have all the variables. John didn't know that there was something more important, something far crueler than Sherlock's life that Moriarty could take.

 

John.

 

No, Sherlock re-iterated to himself, John couldn't find out. He knew that Moriarty expected as much and he was playing right into his hands, but it didn't matter. The game had been set, and Sherlock knew he was on the losing side. He had set up his own failure the moment he got a flatmate, the moment he found something worth keeping. The moment he met John Watson.

 

_All lives end. All hearts are broken. Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock._

 

The only choice he had now was what to lose. He intended to make good use of that last chance, to protect the one thing that mattered.

 

John.

 

He pushed himself up from the bed and pocketed his phone before wandering into the living room. He plopped down on the couch and made sure to keep his voice level as he addressed the man reclining in the chair. “Good morning, Mycroft.”

 

The older brother regarded him silently over his steaming teacup, seemingly searching for something in the detective's expression.

 

Sherlock regarded him just as stoically. “I was expecting you sooner. Sources getting a bit behind?” It was an empty jibe. Sherlock knew that Mycroft read all his incoming texts before he did (and the outgoing ones immediately after he sent them.)

 

Mycroft sighed softly, ignoring the dig at his men's competency. “I've been waiting. I was hoping you would come to me.”

 

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, steepling his fingers beneath his chin. “Why would I do that?”

 

“Because I can help you.”

 

“No, you can't.”

 

“Sherlock, why are you doing this to yourself? You know that you can-” He was cut off by John opening the door. “Hello, John.”

 

The doctor nodded toward him. “Good morning, Mycroft. Would you like some breakfast?” He asked as he walked toward the kitchen.

 

“No thank you. I was just leaving.” He turned back to his brother. “Do consider what I've said. I'm sure I don't need to tell you that this is of the utmost importance. I'll have my schedule cleared in case you change your mind.” He stood and began walking toward the door.

 

Sherlock spoke up as he reached for the handle. “Mycroft.” The slight tremor in his voice would have been undetectable to anyone else.

 

Mycroft tilted his head slightly in acknowledgment. “Yes?”

 

“Goodbye.”

 

He nodded once before leaving.

 

 

 

John stepped out from the kitchen doorway. “What was that about,” he asked between bites of toast.

 

Sherlock kept his tone carefully neutral. “Nothing. Family business.”

 

“Ah.” John shrugged at the elusive answer and sat down on the couch beside him. “Alright. What's on the telly?” He grabbed the remote and began flipping through the channels. “Bah, nothing on. Do you want to watch something?” He turned to Sherlock inquiringly, only to find the man was already staring at him. “What? Have I got something on my face?” He wiped at the edges of his lips.

 

“No.” He didn't look away. “I was just watching you.”

 

John dropped the remote. “Er, alright, then.” He let the silence sit for a few more moments before trying again. “So, what did your brother really want? You two avoid each other when at all possible. You don't _have_ family business.”

 

Sherlock frowned, mentally debating how much to disclose. “He was offering his assistance.”

 

“With a case?”

 

He pursed his lips. “Yes, you could say that.”

 

John turned to face his flatmate fully. “What's going on with you? You're acting oddly. More so than usual, I mean.”

 

The detective silently chastised himself for his poor acting skills. “It's nothing. I'm irritated that Mycroft keeps showing up where he isn't welcome, is all.”

 

“So...anywhere that you are?”

 

Sherlock chuckled. “Exactly.”

 

His phone rang and he picked it up. “Lestrade.”

 

The detective-inspector wasted no time on pleasantries. “I've got a case. How soon can you get down here?”

 

“I'm not interested.”

 

Lestrade ignored him and kept speaking. “We only have half the body. It's gruesome. My officers say it's the most grizzly murder they've ever seen. We have to get through this before the press shows up.”

 

“Not interested.”

 

“Sherlock-”

 

He hung up.

 

John gaped at him. “What the hell? Did you just turn down a case that actually sounded interesting?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“...Why? Are you sick?”

 

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I just don't want to work today.”

 

John continued to stare at him incredulously. “No, really, do I need to give you a check-up?”

 

Sherlock ignored the question. “Let's go to a movie tonight. You can pick. Whatever you want to see.”

 

John huffed out a laugh. He should know better than to try to understand what went on in his friend's head. “Alright. I'll call to see what's playing.”

 

 

It was late before the two of them walked back up the stairs to 221B. John yawned. “Alright, I'm headed to bed. I could barely stay awake through the last half of that.” Sherlock hesitated mid-step on the stairs and the doctor turned back to look at him. His voice was quiet when he spoke again. “You could come up with me, if you like.”

 

Sherlock nodded wordlessly and John reached back to offer a hand to the detective. He took it, and they made their way unhurriedly to John's bedroom. Sherlock ran cold hands over the doctor's face, pale fingers sliding up his jaw and across his neck, then pausing to cradle the back of the blonde's head. He pressed an open-mouthed kiss to his lower jaw and Sherlock held himself there, letting himself memorize John's scent and the texture of his skin under his lips.

 

“Come on.” He pulled Sherlock up for a kiss and began walking him backwards toward the bed.

 

Sherlock reigned in his emotions and took a step back from John. “Are you sure? I thought...” (That you weren't gay, that you had a girlfriend, that you would never want _me_.)

 

“I'm sure. Are you?”

 

_About you? Since the beginning. Always._ “Yes.”

 

He pulled John's shirt up and off him, skirting his fingers up his ribs and across his chest. John kissed him again, harder this time and more pressing, begging for entrance to Sherlock's mouth.

 

Sherlock opened his lips, letting John taste him, explore him, letting himself be possessed. They pulled away from each other only to breathe and fell onto the bed, rolling together and exploring the expanse of each other's skin. Sherlock tossed his own shirt off carelessly and nipped gently at John's throat, sucking a the skin there until it was reddened.

 

He wanted this moment to last forever. He wanted to know every piece of John, to taste every inch of his skin and have every inch of his own tasted in return. He wanted to truly _know_ John, not just physically but mentally, emotionally, exhaustively. He wanted to know all his memories and his every thought. Their lips met again, crashing against each other, and Sherlock's mind was overwhelmed by a simple mantra. ( _I love you, I love you, I love-)_

 

John palmed at his cock through his trousers and he arched up into it, a keen escaping from his throat. John unbuttoned his trousers and slid them down his legs, tossing them into the same direction as his shirt had disappeared to. His own trousers soon followed and their sweat-slicked skin moved together.

 

John's lips found Sherlock's chest and his tongue laved across a pert nipple, causing the detective to twitch beneath him. He smirked and moved down further until his face was level with Sherlock's erection. He mouthed wetly at it through his pants and a broken groan forced it's way from Sherlock's mouth. “John, I...”

 

“Yeah, I know. Christ.”

 

The last vestiges of their clothing were removed and Sherlock let himself appreciate his flat-mates body. His eyes trailed down from the doctor's face to his shoulders to his flat stomach, then to his straining cock. It was slightly shorter than his own but thicker, and the detective found himself eager to have it inside him.

 

John allowed the inspection of his body for only as long as his eyes passed over the detective's. Then his hands were back, starting at Sherlock's calves and sliding smoothly up to cup his balls. He kissed at the detective's stomach and licked a thick stripe down to his pelvis before flicking his tongue teasingly over the head of his cock.

 

Sherlock's hands found what purchase they could in John's short hair and the doctor allowed himself to be pushed down. His lips slid down over the pulsing length and he took what he could into his mouth and fisted the rest, earning a loud moan from the man beneath him. He bobbed his head, experimentally applying suction until Sherlock thrust upward into his mouth. He pulled off the man's length with a wet pop and glanced up uncertainly.

 

“Sherlock, I...I've never done this with, you know...” He blushed. “A man.”

 

Sherlock chuckled breathlessly. “Neither have I. With anyone.” _I want my first, my only time to be with you._

 

“Oh.” He nodded to himself, then reached across his lover to grope for a bottle of lube from his nightstand. He coated three fingers then positioned one of them at the taller man's entrance. “I'll be as gentle as I can. Try to relax.”

 

Sherlock hummed in agreement and brought a fist up to his mouth to bite at his knuckle. John cautiously pressed the first finger in and his partner cried out in surprised pleasure. After a few moments he added a second finger and Sherlock groaned at the stretch. He thrust shallowly at first, until Sherlock was pushing down against his fingers. He scissored the digits inside of him, adding a third finger, and hitting his prostate so that Sherlock gasped.

 

“John, now, please. I want you inside me.”

 

John moaned at the words and removed his fingers, putting them to use slicking up his own length instead. He pressed the head against his partner's entrance. “Ready?”

 

“Oh yes.”

 

John grit his teeth and pushed in slowly, groaning as the tight heat surrounded him. He gripped the detective's hips and pressed all the way in, panting as he forced himself to stay still. Sweat began to gather on his brow and his fingers tightened against Sherlock's skin. “Sherlock? Christ, I'm trying to...”

 

The detective's eyes were tightly shut and his words come out strained. “I know. It's...” He opened his eyes to meet John's heated gaze. “It's fine. It's good. Move.”

 

John pulled out and pushed back in slowly. Sherlock moved his hips to meet the thrusts and their bodies moved together, in tandem. Sherlock clawed at the blonde's back, lost in his own passion, and John sped up his thrusts. Sherlock keened out his pleasure and his partner responded by bringing a hand down to his neglected cock.

 

“Oh! Oh, yes, John! I'm...I can't...”

 

“Yeah, I know. Go on – come for me.”

 

Sherlock bucked into John's hand, coming back down to impale himself on his cock. He moaned loudly as his lover continued to slam into him. His mouth opened soundlessly as his orgasm ripped through him, white hot pleasure rushing through his veins. He was coming back down by the time John's thrust became erratic and he spilled his seed inside of him.

 

John took a few moments to catch his breath before pulling out of him. He rose to his hands and knees, then stood shakily beside the bed. Sherlock look up at him worriedly.

 

“Hold on. I'll be back in a second.”

 

The taller man nodded and John went to the washroom to get a towel. He returned with it wet, and wiped the two of them clean. He then climbed back into the bed and Sherlock curled into him contentedly. John smiled tiredly and pulled the covers up over them, wrapping his arms around his lover. His body was relaxed and he let his mind drift, falling into sleep.

 

He was very nearly unconscious when he heard Sherlock mumble. “I love you, John.”


	8. The Fall

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last chapter. It's...well, it's soaked in tragedy. I hope you have enjoyed so far, and please do remember to leave comment.

 

John's eyes snapped open and he sat straight up in bed, instantly wide awake as a habit of military experience. The first thing he noticed was that the spot in bed beside him was empty. He frowned, then turned to his phone ringing on the nightstand. He grumbled but reached for it, checking the caller ID as he picked it up.

 

Lestrade. That would explain Sherlock's absence, at least. The bugger had gone to take a case, likely the one he had blown off yesterday. It was odd that he hadn't woken John to drag him along. Maybe he had wanted to let him sleep in. The detective had been noticeably kinder lately, more caring. His words from the night before came unbidden into the doctor's mind. _I love you_.

 

He answered his phone cheerily. “Hey, Greg. Is he being even more of an insufferable prat than usual?”

 

The Detective-Inspector's tone was heavy, full of emotion. “John, I need you to come down here.”

 

“Hm? Is he making that much of a nuisance of himself? Put him on the phone and I'll straighten him out.”

 

“No, it's...Sherlock, he's on the roof.”

 

“Wha-what? What's he doing up there?” By now he was getting out of bed and pulling his clothes on.

 

“Christ, John. He won't talk to us. He won't talk to anyone. But he...I think he's going to jump.”

 

All his past experience as a medic fled as soon as he processed the words, and he panicked. “Where is he?”

 

“St. Bart's.”

 

“I'm on my way.”

 

He terminated the call as he was running down the stairs, then quickly dialed Sherlock's number from memory. It rang four, five, six times, before voicemail picked up. He cursed, hailing a cab, and called again. Still no answer. He pressed redial, desperate to get through, desperate to talk to his friend. _Why was this happening? What was Sherlock thinking? Why would he do this?_ The questions were endless. _Not now, especially not now, God, please, not after last night, not after..._ He let out a choked sob and the cabbie looked back at him in concern, but he ignored him. It didn't matter now. He tried Sherlock's cell again, then left a voicemail for him. “Sherlock, it's me. I don' t know what's going on, but pick up the bloody phone. Sherlock, please, I need to talk to you. Don't do this. Don't. Just. Call me.” He tossed the phone down on the seat beside him. _How could you do this now? Now, when I've just finally realized...realized that_ _ **I love you**_ _?_

 

Finally, after far too long, the cab pulled up outside of the hospital. John threw his wallet carelessly at the cabbie, already running toward the hospital building. He could see Sherlock up on the roof, looking over the side. He looked so beautiful up there, wind messing up his hair. John's heart stopped in his chest. He remember all the times they had spent together – their meeting, all the cases, the little kisses, last night, Sherlock's last words to him – _I love you._ He had never said it back.

 

Desperately, he tried one more time to call Sherlock. From the ground, he watched the detective glance down at his phone, then answer it. “Sherlock, I-”

 

“I know, John, but listen, I haven't got much time.”

 

“No, no, don't, you tell me what's going on. You come down from there.”

 

“I can't. I can't come down. We'll have to do this from here.”

 

“Do what? I don't understand.”

 

Sherlock chuckled mirthlessly. “John, do you remember last night?”

 

“What? Yes, of course I do. It was the best night of my life.”

 

“Mine, too. I had been waiting for that for so long, you have no idea.”

 

“That's okay. It's all okay. We can have that now. We can have it forever, please, just come down.”

 

“No, John, I can't. Listen to me, this is important. This phone call, it's my note. That's what people do, don't they? Leave a note?”

 

“Leave a note when?” John was visibly frantic, near tears.

 

He ignored the question. “John, I...I've figured out what I want it to say on my tombstone. 'Loving Husband'. Marry me?”

 

Time stopped as he tried to process the words, tried to understand this. “Yes. Dear god, yes, Sherlock.”

 

Tears rolled down the detective's face. “I love you, John.”

 

“I love you, too.” _Too late_. Sherlock had already dropped the phone.

 

 

 

He jumped.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The quote "I figured out what I want on my tombstone..." is from the comic A Softer World. The link to the comic is here: http://asofterworld.com/index.php?id=519

**Author's Note:**

> I'm very eager to hear any comments.


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